


Accidental Breakage

by Mitsuhachi



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-21
Updated: 2011-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-18 10:57:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mitsuhachi/pseuds/Mitsuhachi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He tells himself that it’s the noise of every object in his room abruptly falling to the ground that wakes him. Absolutely not the arousal still thrumming under his skin, leaving him hard and out of breath, certainly not a name called out not quite loud enough (he hopes) to be heard over the crash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accidental Breakage

**Author's Note:**

> [This fanvid](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A0QTih8cv1I&feature=related) put the idea in my head that when Merlin wakes up in the middle of the night with a hard-on for Arthur, he studies magic. Also, I have no shame. Note that since neither participant are fully aware that anything outside their own head is going on, the consent is a bit in question, though no one's very unhappy about the situation.

He tells himself that it’s noise of every object in his room abruptly falling to the ground that wakes him. Absolutely not the arousal still thrumming under his skin, leaving him hard and out of breath, certainly not a name called out not quite loud enough (he hopes) to be heard over the crash.

He pulls himself up, wincing a little at the rub of too-tight trousers against his skin, and goes to peek out the door. Gaius is still in his cot, mumbling to himself about bindweed, and Merlin lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, carefully pulls the door shut behind him. The magic is close up around him like the air before a storm, little bursts of electricity against his skin and bright-metallic tang on his tongue. He wants to cast a spell. He feels like he could do anything right now, the power strumming in his veins, fighting him for control, and he can already see the clothes and chair and things limned with a dim yellow light.

He sinks down on his bed instead, takes a shuddery breath and holds it as long as he can. He can imagine Arthur, laying back against his pillows and looking very pleased with himself, as Merlin pulls off his shirt. Arthur would—He breathes out, shaky, gasping back another breath with his eyes pressed shut. Arthur would say something to be a prat, and then he’d get up and try to run things…though maybe, if Merlin asked, he would lay back, maybe brace his hands on Merlin’s bare hips as Merlin leaned in and kissed him. He can see it, almost. He can—

This isn’t helping. He tells his eyes to open, reaches ( _the way the muscles in Arthur’s back flex when he rolls his shoulders, caught in firelight, secret_ ) intently for his book of spells. If he has to be awake, he might as well study. The book’s leather is old, worn soft in his hands, and inside the pages are beautiful and full of the perfect channels for his power. His cock pulses, and the magic echoes it, a quick wind that pushes back his hair and billows his nightshirt, ruffling the pages of the book to a new spell, and Merlin doesn’t care because they’re all perfect. He wants to try them all—to bring rain and wind and beating sun, to break things and grow things and move them exactly where he wants them ( _Arthur’s legs spread and resting on his shoulders, Arthur’s mouth stretched around his cock, Arthur’s Asshole Prince façade crumbling away in his hands as he comes_ ). Merlin darts out his tongue to wet lips gone suddenly very dry. This isn’t _helping_.

It’s very late at night, and he doesn’t have to admit to this later. He slides his hands down his chest, picturing Arthur’s—broader, the muscles more pronounced, a warrior’s body—and if his magic is still crackling around him, well, no one else has to know about that either.

*****

Arthur wakes up to the distinct touch of a hand, sliding from his shoulders down across his chest. He bolts up, dagger in hand before he’s awake enough to register that he’s alone. He looks around listening to the fire crack in the empty room, and almost cuts himself when the touch comes again, crackling against his belly like static. There’s no one here.

There’s no one here, but there’s a warm pressure, heavy like water and as impossible to fight, pushing him back down to the bed. It traces along the insides of his wrists and trails up his arms and he can’t tell if he _can’t_ move them or doesn’t want to.

“Stay,” he hears in his mind, a voice low and powerful and strange, and he does, tilting his head back to let little sparks like kisses go one by one down his neck. The presence flows down his body, kissing at his ribs instead, ticklish, and Arthur should complain but instead he finds himself panting, rough and loud in the quiet of his room. He’s rocking his hips and there’s nothing there and he wants… “Ohhh…” the voice says, low, and then “Please, please, let me…” He’s wearing pants, but the dream-thing doesn’t seem to care, strokes him underneath them without bothering to remove them first. It’s annoying enough to sharpen Arthur’s thoughts; the Crown Prince is not going to dirty his sleeping clothes over a dream that can’t keep its priorities straight. He pushes them off himself, and the dream allows it until he moves to sit up. It’s pressing against his hips, trapping his knees so that in the end he just kicks the damn things off and tilts his head back for more of those kisses-that-aren’t.

There’s the slick push of a tongue in his mouth, coppery and hot, but no lips to meet when he presses up, no shoulders to pull down or back to pet and he wants to moan in frustration. Or possibly that’s the wet heat opening up around his fingers, the fullness and strange _press_ snaking inside that he’s not sure he likes until—“ _Yes,_ ”--a flash of pleasure so intense he can’t breathe at all. He bucks his hips, mouth falling open as the pressure starts to move. It’s like being fucked by lightning or water, something he shouldn’t feel and now he knows he’ll crave, and there’s a hand fisted tight around his cock even though both of his own are still tangled, white-knuckled, in his sheets. “Want you to fuck me…please… _Arthur._ ” His body tingles, all over, from the energy playing over it, inside it. “Want to taste you,” he can feel the tension coiling low in his belly, but the pressure around his cock doesn’t stop and all he can do is breathe, “Want to kiss you, and push my cock between your lips and I want--” and his mind blanks out as the pleasure crests, dimly aware of muffled cries that probably weren’t his own.

“I want you to know me,” the voice whispers across his mind, tired and small and broken, and somehow, bizarrely and even though he’s none of those things, the voice sounds just like Merlin.


End file.
